


An Exercise in Control

by rhienelleth



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhienelleth/pseuds/rhienelleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney and Sark are partnered together for missions while he is working for SD-6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Exercise in Control

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for and won a challenge entry at the old Cover Me archive. Challenges: Sublimation. Dream Sequence. Irina and Vaughn have a conversation.
> 
> It is not a part of my Illusions series.

_The French Countryside_

 

Sleeping wasn't something she did anymore. Not if she could help it, and not for long when she couldn't. She slept when she could stay awake no longer, when her eyes finally drifted shut in the small hours of the night, and exhaustion pulled her under, like a swimmer drowning in the depths of the ocean.

 

And every time, she dreamed.  

 

Usually, it was her mother she saw first. Not as she most remembered her. Not as the woman in the CIA cell, her face free of make-up, her eyes calculating and hard, and always aware of the cameras recording her every move. Sometimes, she would look at her daughter through the glass separating them, and those eyes would soften, and a memory would stir in the back of Sydney's mind. It was that memory, that other woman, who haunted her dreams.

 

The mother she thought she'd forgotten. The woman who tucked her in at night, who made her cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut from the bread, who sang her quiet lullabies in a language she hadn't understood. She knew it to be Russian, now, but couldn't remember the words.  It was that Irina she saw when she closed her eyes. And for a time, she was four years old again and feeling the warmth of her mother's lips pressed against her brow.

 

And then, she would hear him.

 

"Get away from her, Sydney. Irina Derevko doesn't deserve your love or forgiveness."

 

The hate in Vaughn's voice hit her like a physical blow, stabbed her where it hurt the most, and shattered the dream into nightmare. She stood on a pier in Tangier beside her mother, on a day so hot and humid that the air had a weight all its own.

 

Sometimes after waking, she wondered if she would always remember that last confrontation between them with cruel, perfect clarity. 

 

"I'm her mother, Agent Vaughn," Irina said carefully, shifting slightly, so she stood decisively between Sydney and the gun Vaughn held. "I may not deserve her forgiveness. She may not love me. But I have a right to love her, whether she reciprocates or not."

 

"Michael, stop this," Sydney heard herself say, but neither he nor her mother paid her any heed.

 

Vaughn sighted down his CIA issue Beretta 92 FS at the woman who'd killed his father, his arms steady, his aim unwavering. It was, Sydney would always think later, something she should have seen coming.

 

"If I bring you back in, you'll just escape again, won't you?" he asked her mother, his green eyes harder, colder than Sydney had ever seen them. 

 

In answer , Irina raised an eyebrow, smiled in that knowing, unconsciously sensual way she had. She lifted a hand, brushed her hair back over her ear.

 

"If you bring me back in?" she asked, amused.  "Come, come,  Agent Vaughn, we both know that isn't why you're here. It isn't what you _really_ want to do." She nodded toward his gun. "I can see it in your face, in your eyes. If Sydney wasn't with me, I'd already be dead, wouldn't I?"

 

"Enough!" Sydney commanded, attempting to step between them. Her mother lifted an arm, held her back. "Stop it, both of you. Michael, put down the gun. Mother, stop baiting him. You _are_ coming back in." She paused, injected her voice with extra force. "With me."

 

But Vaughn didn't lower the gun, and Irina turned and looked her daughter in the eye, sadness flickering across her face. 

 

" Sydney," she said softly, "I know that's what you wanted, but I can't. I love you. I'm sorry."

 

Those were to be the last words her mother spoke.  In a move too quick, too decisive to be anything but planned, Irina went for the gun holstered at the small of her back, beneath her shirt. Vaughn could see it as her hand closed over the grip, even if Sydney could not. And that was all the incentive he needed.

 

She woke with the sound of gunfire still ringing in her ears, the twin smells of gunpowder and freshly spilled blood filling her senses. The dream had happened so many times now, that she no longer woke screaming.

 

_Thank God._

 

"Are you all right?"

 

The question, offered quietly in the darkness of the train car, reminded her that she wasn't alone, that her traveling companion sat in the seat across from her, and that he was watching her too closely for comfort. She straightened in her seat, resisting the urge to scrub a hand over her face. She couldn't allow him to see her being weak.  It was exactly the sort of advantage Sark would be looking for.

 

"Fine," she managed steadily, and looked down at her hands, her seat, and finally out the window into the night. Anywhere but at him.  Somehow, she couldn't quite meet the familiar intensity of his gaze, and lie.

 

But with his usual doggedness, Sark refused to let it go.

 

"I think not," he said, his voice taking on a steely quality she knew all too well. Whatever else he was, Sark could be a stubborn bastard.

 

She'd known this was coming, of course. Ever since Sloane had decided, for some ungodly reason, to pair her more often with Sark than with Dixon , she'd known it would only be a matter of time. When you worked with someone in the field, they tended to notice little things like constant insomnia and chronic nightmares. In some ways, Sloane's penchant for Sark had come as a relief.  Dixon w

ould have forced the issue much sooner, always more the concerned parent than her own father.

 

But Sark was less polite about it.

 

"Sydney, during the last six weeks we've gone on eight separate missions together. Nine, if you count that single-day jaunt to Mexico. Sloane tells me you requested more mission time, and he's given it to you. But if you'll pardon me being blunt, you've hardly been at the top of your game."

 

She knew it was true, but she stiffened indignantly, nonetheless. She'd thrown herself into work ever since her mother's death, taking no time to grieve.  Because if she took the time to think about it, she wasn't sure she'd ever recover.  This job had already cost her so much - Danny's life, Will's innocence - she couldn't stand to think of Tangier for very long. Every day, she worked herself into exhaustion, hoping not to dream at night. And every night, the nightmares worsened.

 

"I've done nothing to jeopardize any of our mission objectives --" she said defensively. He didn't let her get any further.

 

"Of course," he interrupted. "Remarkably, you've held up very well, and done everything expected of you with very few mistakes. But one of these times, the mistake you make will be a detriment, and may cost us more than merely the mission objective."

 

He leaned forward, the dim glow of the overhead light illuminating his face, touching on the impeccably pressed lines of the gray suit he wore, the silk of his charcoal shirt and tie.

 

"Everything you do in the field puts your life - and mine - at risk. I've been patient, waiting for you to work out whatever your demons are all on your own.  But you haven't done that, and I can no longer afford to wait. Avignon will hardly be a walk in the park, Sydney ."

 

She grit her teeth, sure he was using her given name just to irk her.

 

"I know," she said shortly. "I promise you, Sark , you don't have to worry about me. I'll do my part."

 

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze lingering on the shadows beneath her eyes, on the wan color of her skin. She felt a flush heating her face. She knew she looked tired, exhausted even. But a liberal application of cosmetics could hide all of that. She'd learned that much in the past several weeks.

 

"Will you?" he said, challenging her, and leaned back in his seat, his hands steepled before him.  "I'm sorry, but your assurances are no longer good enough."

 

She stared, shocked. He'd never argued with her quite so resolutely, before. He was usually more subtle and sly.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"You heard me. You're having trouble sleeping - and when you do sleep, it's fitful, plagued by dreams. You need a good, solid, _unencumbered_ night of rest. Preferably, before we attend the fête at the Pope's Palace.  Their security is quite daunting."

 

Unable to find the words to argue with him, she folded her arms over her chest and glared, instead. He remained utterly unphased, a fact which only irritated her further.

 

"I know your aversion to medication, Sydney."

 

She arched an insolent brow. _Just how, precisely, did he know that?_ His lips quirked in a slight smile, as if he could read her thoughts. He raised an eyebrow right back at her, and it was she who looked away. As if the pitch-black night they were traveling through was truly interesting to watch.

 

"But I do think this instance calls for drastic measures. There are other forms of releasing tension to combat insomnia, but I rather doubt you'd be amenable to any of them."

 

She barely kept her mouth from dropping open in shock. Surely he wasn't...he couldn't be referring to..._Good God, no!_ His comment had drawn her gaze away from the window and back to him. 

 

He was watching her, and that quirk of lips slowly spread into a full-fledged grin. He said nothing, but he didn't have to. Her mind had jumped to its own conclusion as to his meaning, and she could feel the flush burning her  cheeks.

 

The worst of it was, this wasn't the first time sex with Sark had occurred to her.  But then, she told herself, any woman with a pulse couldn't help but be attracted to the man. Especially if the woman in question had gone without sex for almost a year, and continually accompanied him on life threatening missions.  It was a fairly simple physiological response.

 

He cocked his head, his blue eyes laughing at her, and embarrassment quickly gave way to anger.

 

"You're damn right I wouldn't be amenable," she said caustically. "No offense, Sark , but an assassin who sells his loyalty to the highest bidder is hardly my type."

 

There was a long pause, and when Sark spoke, his eyes never left hers. 

 

"I was referring to hypnotherapy, Ms. Bristow, a fairly routine cure for insomnia these days, though not the best solution for anyone in our line of work."

 

Practicing hypnotism and its ilk left the mind too vulnerable to suggestion, and was generally frowned upon for agents of both SD-6 and the CIA.

 

"However, if you'd prefer another method, please don't hesitate to suggest it."

 

There was no doubt about it - he was smirking at her.  The bastard.  She looked away  again, sought refuge in silence, in trying without success to ignore his presence. She could still feel his eyes on her, and the sensation left her unsettled. The heat embarrassment and anger had brought to her skin didn't fade as it should have.  In fact, it seemed to warm beneath his gaze, and she found herself shifting restlessly in her seat.

 

"Are you all right, Ms. Bristow?" he asked, and this time there was definitely a mocking tone to the question.

 

Sydney 's jaw clenched; she refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Then, with a feeling of grim resolve, she stilled her fidgeting and closed her eyes. If she couldn't actually sleep, she decided, she could at least _pretend _to sleep.  Not only would it prevent any more attempts at conversation, but it might just succeed in getting Sark to leave the insomnia issue alone, too. Or so she hoped.

 

Unfortunately, he was more observant than she'd given him credit for. After the first hour, he suddenly gave an explosive sigh and leaned forward. She could hear the cloth of his suit whispering across the leather seat.

 

"Please don't insult my intelligence by attempting to make me believe you're suddenly cured. It won't work."

 

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, to find him much closer than she'd thought, leaning across the aisle to look down at her. The blue of his eyes was brilliant enough to make her breath catch in her throat, his legs near enough to hers that she could feel the warmth radiating from them. But he frowned down at her, his expression all business, his eyes almost cold.

 

"Here," he offered, holding out a small white packet of something. "If you truly want to sleep, take some of this. It's merely herbal, so you needn't fear any nasty side effects."

 

When she didn't take it immediately, he shrugged.

 

"It isn't habit forming, I assure you. The Chinese have been using it for centuries with excellent results."

 

Reluctantly, she took the packet from him, opening it to stare at the little capsules of herbs. It was true; she hated all forms of medication. But to truly sleep for once, without any dreams to haunt her...she only hoped her hand didn't tremble too much as she shook one of the pills free. Sark was right.  She'd been running on empty for too long, and she couldn't risk making a mistake that might get them both killed. 

 

"Thank-you," she said softly, and swallowed the capsule with a mouthful of water.

 

He merely nodded. No more words passed between them in the time it took before Sydney felt the velvety edges of slumber close in around her. It wrapped her in a warm, dark, and thankfully empty embrace.

 

She slept for the rest of the train ride, and didn't dream once.

 

 

_Avignon , France_

 

 

They were booked at the _Hotel La Mirande_, chosen for its proximity to the Pope's Palace rather than for its amenities, though it had plenty of those. Especially in the suite they were using as part of their cover.  It was by far one of the largest, most luxurious rooms Sydney had ever stayed in.  She imagined Sark felt quite at home.

 

Furnished with antiques from 18th century France , it epitomized elegance in every line of dark wood, every piece of velvet or embroidered upholstery. Sydney was afraid to sit on anything. She stood in the center of the room, terribly self-conscious about everything, even the plush carpet beneath her feet, and held her single bag in both hands as she stared.

 

"_Merci,_" Sark said to the valet as he pressed a note into the man's hand. "_Ma femme et moi ne souhaitons pas être deranges."  My wife and I don't wish to be disturbed._

 

"_Bien sûr. Bonsoir, Monsieur." _The valet turned to Sydney and gave a little bow. "_Madame._"

 

She nodded, and he left, pulling the door shut behind him. Sark immediately turned and strode past her, across the room to the door leading into the bedroom. He was unbuttoning his suit and loosening his tie as he went.

 

"Eight bloody hours on a train," she heard him mutter under his breath. Then he raised his voice, called over his shoulder, "I'm going to take a shower.  Make yourself at home."

 

The door shut in the bathroom, and a few moments later, the water turned on. _Right,_ she thought, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

 

Sark had called her his wife.

 

She'd known, going in, what their cover story involved. _Monsieur_ Chevalier had, after all, expected the rather wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Lucien Évariste to attend the fête, at his express invitation.  Since he'd never met them, and Sloane had substituted pictures of Sark and Sydney for those of the happy couple in Chevalier's intel, they would need to appear happily married. The real Évariste's were newlyweds, and therefore quite besotted with each other, by all reports.

 

It all made Sydney 's stomach jittery just thinking about it. Dear God, she was going to have to pretend to be in love with Sark. It didn't bear dwelling on.

 

Her wedding ring was even one of Marshall 's nifty gadgets. 

 

_Diamonds are a girl's best friend, right Syd? I mean, a spy's best friend, in this case. Just twist the wedding circlet one hundred and eighty degrees,  and voilá, we have the world's smallest, best glasscutter. Well, essentially, it cuts through pretty much anything. But look, see the diamonds are actually real. We can't have anyone looking at your wedding ring and thinking they're fake, right?  So...two carats for the center stone, another for the accent pieces... Um...you're bringing this back, right? 'Cause I'm pretty sure Sloane will take it out of my paycheck if you lose it, and it was really expensive..._

 

But it had hit a nerve, somehow, to hear Sark 's voice say "my wife" so smoothly in French. She had to take another breath, let it out slowly.  _Just pretend it's Dixon_, she told herself.

 

And she almost laughed out loud at the thought.  Dixon had always been a father figure to her. They had, when necessary, masqueraded as a married couple, but never in circumstances such as this, probably because they couldn't have pulled it off if they'd tried.  Sydney tried to imagine Dixon kissing her passionately for the benefit of those who might be watching, and failed utterly.  Her mind superimposed Dixon with Sark , and her heart immediately began to beat faster.

 

She expelled a breath.

 

"This is never going to work," she muttered, and hefting her bag, strode into the suite's spacious bedroom.

 

It was dominated by the king sized bed, but Sydney refused to even think about that right now. She began opening drawers, the closet, and putting away her things. She noticed that certain items were already there, unpacked by the valet from the Évariste's heavier luggage.  Things like the tux and evening gown she and Sark would need to wear for the fête.

 

She was actually looking forward to that.  The sooner they went to the fête, the sooner they could validate, and if necessary, steal the Rambaldi pages Sloane believed were on display at the famous _Palais des Papes_ exhibition.

 

The sooner they could go home.

 

Of course, they had to survive tonight and most of tomorrow before the celebration began. Two nights total, and then with the pages in hand, they could leave.

 

Two nights couldn't possibly be that bad.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The shower felt heavenly. Train travel, Sark had always felt, was highly overrated, and not at all the charming experience it was marketed as.  Give him a private jet any day.  It covered the same distance in a third of the time. Unfortunately, the Évariste's loved to travel by train, and Chevalier had catered to their whim.

 

As the water pulsed down on his head, washing the stiffness and kinks out of his back and legs, Sark mentally reviewed everything in Sloane's file on the newlyweds. Lucien was from old money, his family's wealth going back several generations.  He would wear a formal tux as naturally as some men wore jeans. He was a shrewd businessman, even at thirty, and Chevalier hoped to use the fête to convince him to invest in some of his business ventures.

 

Unfortunately, two of the ventures in question dealt in the research and development of certain stolen plans for United States military arms, something that a dozen countries would pay top dollar for, given the chance. Sloane wanted his cut, of course, though ostensibly, they were to use the opportunity to get close enough to Chevalier to "get the plans back" for the CIA. Not tomorrow night. But Sloane wanted Sark to accept the investment proposal, write a check, and use the connection forged at a later date.  Sydney would be using his meeting with Chevalier as her opportunity to steal the Rambaldi pages, if, in fact, they were real.

 

For a second, Sark wondered what Sydney 's CIA counter mission to all this would be. He grinned, sluicing water through his hair. She didn't know he knew, of course. But then, she didn't seem to realize just how observant he was.

 

Like that bit of foolishness on the train. If he'd had to, he'd have force-fed her the damn pills when they reached the hotel. His patience didn't include allowing her to get him killed, and she'd very nearly done so on their last covert operation together.

 

If your head wasn't in the game one hundred and ten percent, you didn't play. Sydney was good, one of the best operatives he'd ever worked with, but no one was that bloody good.

 

Of course, it was always amusing to bait her. He grinned, turning the shower off , and grabbing a towel as he did so. She never failed to respond, and getting under her skin had proved an entertaining pastime. At least she'd taken the pill, and actually rested. Sark felt much more confident in her ability to pull off the mission.

 

Not that he was worried about her playing her role.  Elise Évariste, unlike her husband, was entirely new money. She'd married into it. It was like one of those movie-of-the-week things -- the wealthy businessman falls for the young American woman on holiday in France . Uses extravagant gifts and whirlwind courtship to sweep her off her feet. So Sydney had far less of a stretch, acting wise, than Sark.

 

No, his concern lay with the Rambaldi pages. Security was tight; if she were caught, Sark would be too.  And that was entirely unacceptable. 

 

He wrapped the towel around his waist, pleased to note that the hotel stocked _real _towels, not those terrycloth excuses one usually found. The shower had made him feel human again, thankfully, and he felt far more up to handling the difficult Ms. Bristow than he had twenty minutes earlier. 

 

He looked in the mirror, grinned, and decided to bait her a bit more, purely for his own amusement. At least missions with Sydney were never dull.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sark came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Sydney was fairly certain he did it on purpose. Not that she could prove anything. It just seemed like the kind of thing he would do, knowing it would make her uncomfortable. He'd been pushing her buttons since the day Sloane brought him into SD-6.

 

"Shower's yours," he said, crossing over to the bag he'd placed on the bed. Which just happened to be the same side of the bed she was standing on.

 

She tried to ignore him, concentrating on the dress she was trying to brush free of wrinkles and hang in the closet. She wasn't going to let him unsettle her. If he wanted to parade around half clothed, fine, that was his problem.

 

Still, Dixon had never done anything like that. He'd respected her too much. Sark , evidently, wasn't burdened by such things.

 

"Which side of the bed do you prefer?" he asked suddenly. Sydney looked directly at him before she could stop herself.

 

"Excuse me?" she said, when she found her voice. 

 

He'd turned around to ask her the question, and she found herself staring directly at the smooth expanse of his chest. It had been a long time since she'd seen that much of a man's body, naked, and still damp from the shower. Since Noah. And Sark had a very nice body.  Beneath all of those expensive suits, his torso and arms were clearly defined muscle, his abdomen flat and tight.  As she watched, a drop of water fell from his hair to his shoulder. It rolled down his body, trailing over the hard planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, until it disappeared behind the towel. Her throat went dry, her mind went blank, and she couldn't remember for the life of her what they were talking about.

 

She tried, rather feebly, to remind herself that this was Sark , that he was her enemy, that she _hated_ him. But her libido didn't care. Her heart was suddenly pumping a thousand beats per second, and she had to inhale a deep breath of cool air and take a step back. He was standing a good four feet away from her, but it didn't feel like enough.

 

"The bed?" he prompted, a trace of something like irritation in his voice. 

 

It snapped her right back to reality. She looked up, met his eyes, and was pleased when she managed not to blush. After all, he was the one who'd chosen to wear the towel and nothing else.

 

"The right side," she said coolly.

 

He shrugged.

 

"Very well. I'd offer to take the divan, but..."

 

"I know the drill, Sark. The hotel staff needs to believe we're married, which requires both sides of the bed to be slept in. I get it.  I think we're both professional enough to share."

 

After the train, she was waiting for him to make a comment about her insomnia, but it never came. Instead, he stood staring at her for a moment, not moving. He arched an eyebrow.

 

"Are you going to take a shower, Ms. Bristow, or should I change in the bath?"

 

Now she did flush. He was waiting for her to leave so he could change, and she'd just stood there, staring at him like...

 

She turned on her heel, stalked over to her still open bag, and grabbed her own change of clothing. There was no way _she_ was coming out of the shower in a towel, whatever his prurient fantasies might be. She didn't glance at him again as she went into the bathroom, and firmly shut the door between them.

 

However calm and cool he appeared on the outside, she was somehow sure he was laughing at her on the inside.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fully clothed in a black slacks and a cobalt silk shirt, _sans_ tie, Sark ordered room service while Sydney took her shower.  It fit the profile for the newlyweds to stay closeted in their suite rather than make a public appearance.  For the sake of the roles they were playing, he ordered caviar, lobster, and a bottle of Perrier-Jouet, to be served at an intimate little table by candlelight. He dismissed the waiter with a substantial tip as soon as the initial glasses of champagne were poured, and waited for Sydney.

 

It wasn't his drink of choice.  He much preferred a fine red wine, but he had to admit, for a champagne the Perrier was superior in both quality and flavor.

 

He paced over by the terrace, leaned against it with one arm while he stared out the window. His face was expressionless, his mind going over every possible problem that might arise during their mission tomorrow. All in all, he felt they had an excellent chance at succeeding brilliantly. Provided Sydney did her part correctly.

 

She came into the room behind him, a whisper of silk and chiffon rustling over skin. He turned around, ready to hold out her glass of champagne with a suitably sardonic smile, and the gesture died before it had a chance to begin.

 

He'd never seen Sydney look quite like this.  The dress was black, but glittered with hundreds of tiny crystals that caught the candlelight and blazed like stars. Strapless, it clung to her bodice tightly, and flared over her hips in a form-fitting swirl of fabric that swayed with every step she took. It was slit up one leg, revealing a tantalizing length of firm, tanned flesh.

 

He had to force himself to continue forward, to keep his movements smooth so she wouldn't notice the brief hesitation in his gait, or the way his expression froze the instant he saw her.

 

"Your champagne, _Madame_ Évariste," he heard himself say.

 

His voice was just slightly deeper than normal.  Because his response irritated him -- damn it, she was hardly the first beautiful woman he'd worked with -- he barely spared her a glance before turning sharply away. He offered her no compliments on her appearance, surely an unmistakable insult to a woman who looked as she did.

 

"Shall we dine?"

 

This time, the irritation in his tone was obvious, and Sydney glanced at him curiously as she took her seat at the table. Her hair, he noticed, hung freely about her shoulders, somehow only adding to the allure of her look.

 

"I'm sorry, were you waiting for me?" she said, her eyes on his face. "I thought we were dining downstairs."

 

He didn't look at her, merely shrugged, topping off his glass.

 

"The Évariste's have just returned from their honeymoon, Sydney, and by all reports, still spend an excessive amount of time behind closed doors. It would be out of character for them to eat below after eight hours on a train."

 

It had punched him hard and fast, knocked the wind from him. And he didn't like it. Didn't like that anyone had the power to do that to him.

 

"This is good," she said suddenly, and took a sip of her champagne. Her eyes watched him over the glass, wary and measuring. She knew something was wrong, was trying to keep things amiable.

 

He couldn't have stopped his next scathing comment if he'd tried. And he didn't.

 

"What a bloody relief," he said, taking an insolent swallow of Perrier. "I'm so glad the Évariste's dining preferences meet your exacting standards."

 

He expected a response to that, but none came. Her silence finally goaded him into looking across the table at her. She was sitting in the glow of the candlelight, utterly still, her face empty of expression. The flickering of the tiny flames sent shadows chasing across her face, gave the slightest illusion of hurt to her eyes. As he watched, she slowly reached down and placed her glass back beside her plate. She gave it a small adjustment as if its exact position were of vital importance, and then placed her hands on the table.

 

He felt something slide through his gut, an emotion he couldn't quite identify. It made him regret his words, just barely. They hadn't gotten him the reaction he'd hoped for, and he found this quiet, unresponsive Sydney unsettled him. 

 

Somehow, he'd lost his balance, and he didn't know how to get it back.

 

"If we aren't dining downstairs," she said finally, her words slow and careful, "I don't think I'm hungry. If you'll excuse me." 

 

She didn't look at him as she stood and walked from the room. She shut the bedroom door with a final sounding click.

 

Sark let out an irritable, explosive sigh, and pushed back from the table. Most of the meal lay uneaten. Nearly three hundred dollars of food and drink gone to waste.  He wasn't sure if he was more annoyed with himself or Sydney, but he tossed back the rest of his champagne, poured himself another glass.

 

He determined not to go to bed until he knew she was asleep. He wanted no more contact with Ms. Bristow tonight. In his present mood, any interaction could only be dangerously volatile.  And he wasn't sure for whom it would prove the most dangerous.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sydney didn't take Sark 's herbal remedy because she hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Maybe, since she'd managed to sleep once without dreaming, she could manage it again, but on her own this time.

 

She slept in a pair of satin pajamas, curling up on her side of the bed and pulling the covers up around her. She stared into the darkness for a long time, puzzling over Sark 's strange behavior, unable to come up with an explanation for it. Sark was always... Sark . But tonight had been different. He hadn't baited her, exactly. Instead, he'd been deliberately cutting in both his actions and his comments. She couldn't fathom it.

 

Had something changed since the last time they'd spoken? Clearly, he was angry with her. Just as clearly, he wasn't going to discuss with her whatever it was. _Just perfect_, she thought. Whatever the issue, it was bound to make tomorrow evening difficult, at best.

 

She used the problem to occupy her mind until sleep started to pull at the edges of her perception. Consuming champagne earlier had helped, however small the amount.  It was one form of alcohol that always made her sleepy, and although she usually abstained from drinking it for precisely that reason, tonight she welcomed the effects.

 

Unfortunately, unlike the herbs, champagne failed to make her sleep dreamless. If anything, it intensified the effects. Every emotion from that fateful, horrid day felt magnified under the lens of the dream.  Her desperation to talk her mother back in. Her shock and anger at seeing Vaughn there, at the altercation that followed. 

 

She'd asked herself the question a thousand times since that moment, but she couldn't help but ask it again: if he'd loved her, really loved her, couldn't he have left Irina to her?  Given her the opportunity to save her mother's life, form some sort of relationship with the woman?

 

At the very least, couldn't he have let someone else pull the trigger?

 

The clearest moment of that day, the moment that she couldn't, wouldn't forget, was always at the end.  Kneeling beside her mother on the ground, blood soaking into the knees of her pants, sprayed across her shirt, her neck, her face. The smell of it made her sick. Irina's eyes were sightless, her face lax in death. Her hand clutched the object she'd been reaching for, a small, leather bound book she'd had tucked into her waistband. A flashing glimpse of the black leather might have looked like the grip of a gun, from farther away. Sydney would never be sure. 

 

She looked up at Vaughn as he came to stand over her, watched the play of emotions across his face as he looked down, and realized what Irina was holding. That she hadn't been reaching for a gun at all. Shock, confusion, fear, anger. But the most damning emotion of all was the one that didn't make an appearance, not even as he holstered his own gun and turned to look at her.

 

Regret.

 

Vaughn did not regret what he'd done, and she would never be able to forgive him for that.

 

She woke gasping for breath, the hot feel of tears burning behind her eyes. The sheets were a tangled, sweaty mess twisted around her, and it took several long moments before she got her emotions and breathing back under control. 

 

Then she remembered Sark, and rolled over onto her back to make sure she hadn't woken him. But he wasn't there. His side of the bed was smooth and empty. Moonlight streamed in through the open window, and she could see quite easily that he had yet to come to bed. She frowned, brushing a hand over his clearly untouched pillow.

 

"You didn't take the pills, Sydney." His voice reached out from the shadows of the room, made her freeze mid-motion. "Why?"

 

He was sitting in darkness, slouched in the room's only chair. She couldn't see his face, that corner of the room drenched completely in shadow, but a sliver of pale moonlight caught the edge of a short glass tumbler as he lifted it to his lips. She half sat up, her heart suddenly pounding. He'd been sitting here, awake, she realized. Watching her.

 

She licked lips gone suddenly dry.

 

"Ah - I wanted to see if I could sleep without them. Peacefully."

 

"It appears you can't, as yet."

 

Suddenly angry, she flung the sheets aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The dream relived one of the worst, most intensely personal experiences of her life. She hated the idea that he'd seen her at so vulnerable a moment, that she hadn't been aware of it. Even more, that she'd wished for his presence right after waking, and been disappointed to find its lack. 

 

Not that it meant anything. It was just comforting, somehow, to know another human being slept quietly nearby after she woke from one of her nightmares.

 

But Sark was not sleeping, and very unfortunately, not quiet.

 

"It's my choice what I want to risk, Sark," she said, barely keeping her tone even. She stood up, turned around so she was facing him. She hated that she was arguing with someone whose face she couldn't see clearly.  "Even if you're rude enough to watch a private moment you had no business witnessing, you could at least choose not to comment on it."

 

He said nothing, just took another lazy drink from the glass, and Sydney 's anger boiled over.  She didn't think about what she was saying before the words tumbled from her lips.

 

"You smug son of a bitch! I have a right to my privacy. I _will not_ share the most painful moments of my life with one of Sloane's trumped up errand boys. Find some other way to feed your inflated ego and twisted curiosity."

 

Anyone else would have reacted to the verbal slap she'd just handed him. Sark simply shrugged and stood up, casually, as if she and the words she hurled were of little consequence to him.  If Sydney had been paying better attention, she would have noticed the slight unsteadiness to his step as he walked toward her. But all she saw was the smirk twisting Sark 's lips.

 

He paused in the shaft of moonlight, staring down at the amber liquid still in his glass as if it held the secrets of the universe.

 

"That's quite the accusation, coming from you, Sydney.  Why, according to Sloane, you're the most loyal lackey he's ever had."

 

His tone was conversational, as if they were two friends sharing a casual talk, and the import of his words didn't hit her immediately. When their meaning registered, Sydney 's mouth tightened.  She forced herself to speak past a clenched jaw. She wanted nothing in the world so badly as to wipe that smirk from Sark 's face.

 

"Sloane likes to think of me as a daughter, as his most loyal agent. I do my job, and I'm good at it. But I'm no lackey, Sark . I'm not like you. I don't enjoy boot licking."

 

And yet, when he spoke, his words were soft and controlled.

 

"Why don't we discuss what's really bothering you, Sydney? Why don't we talk about your mother, and this man who killed her."

 

Her face went white. Shock robbed her of breath, froze her limbs, almost drained her of anger. How had he known? No one inside SD-6 except her father knew about Vaughn.

 

As if he could read her mind, Sark smiled insolently. 

 

"You talk in your sleep," he said, and raised his glass to take a drink.

 

Sydney didn't remember moving. There was a moment immediately after Sark spoke, when everything went blank and numb. And then the anger surged back in to fill the void, so hot she burned with it.

 

The next thing she knew, her palm stung and throbbed, and she'd struck his glass from his hand. It tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents all over the expensive, 18th century Turkish rug.

 

Sydney opened her mouth -- about to tell him _never_ to bring up her mother again -  but Sark 's laconic attitude was gone. Suddenly his hands were on her arms, his fingers bruising her skin, his face inches from hers.

 

"You spoiled little bitch!" he said, punctuating each word with a flexing of his fingers, as if he really wanted to shake her senseless. "Do you know how much effort I've made to accommodate your fucking emotional issues?  How many times I've covered for you when you've been sloppy? How many missions you would have _failed _without me? Do you?"

 

For a humming five seconds, they both stood frozen, Sydney 's eyes wide and startled, and trapped by the intensity of his gaze. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, barely remembered how to breathe.

 

She hadn't intended to strike him. She wished now that she hadn't. There was something profoundly dangerous about Sark when he was roused to anger.  She'd never seen him lose control like this, and it occurred to her to wonder how much he'd had to drink.

 

Heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Sydney cleared her throat, and wet her lips with her tongue. Sark 's gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth to follow the movement, and as quickly as that, the threat of imminent violence was gone.

 

It shifted somehow, changed slightly, and suddenly Sydney was all too aware of how close they were standing, of Sark 's hands still gripping her arms, though the force of his grip had eased slightly. He stood close enough for her to notice the darker circle of blue around the lighter irises of his eyes; close enough to smell the brandy he'd been drinking; to feel heat radiating through the light silk of his shirt.

 

To shiver as his breath whispered across her skin.

 

He was going to kiss her.  She realized it about half a second before his head bent, before his lips hovered expectantly over hers. It was half a second in which  she could have pulled away, taken a step back, said something to break the suddenly charged mood.

 

But she did none of those things. Sark bent his head, and she could feel the blood racing through her veins, the flush heating her body as she parted her lips, waiting, expecting...

 

He was gone so suddenly she stumbled, scarcely keeping herself from falling. She'd been leaning into his grip, she realized in embarrassment.  Caught up in a moment that never should have happened.

 

She blinked, reorienting herself to where Sark was, to where she was, to what they both were doing.

 

His back was to her as he bent to pick up the spilled glass. He used a handkerchief from his pocket to soak up the worst of the alcohol. Sydney watched, and crossed her arms protectively over her chest in an unconsciously defensive move.

 

_He nearly kissed me, _she thought. _Dear Lord, how could that have happened?_

 

Sark turned around as he stood, his expression when he faced her cool and distant. She could only see emptiness in his eyes, now, and wondered if there had ever really been anything else in them. Perhaps she'd imagined that moment.

 

"I think it's best if I sleep in the outer room," he said coolly, "when you go back to bed, sleep on the other side.  That ought to be  enough for the hotel staff."

 

He moved for the door, brushing by her as he went, and she turned, touching his arm lightly before she thought the action through. A muscle in his jaw jumped, and the flesh of his arm felt hard and taut beneath her hand.

 

"Sark --"

 

He stopped briefly, not looking at her. His voice was smoothly cultured and impersonal, and if she hadn't known better, she'd have thought the entire altercation moments before had never happened. 

 

"You're mother's dead, Sydney. Life goes on. Get over it."

 

As he'd probably intended, her hand dropped back to her side, and he continued unimpeded through the doorway. 

 

It was a long time before sleep came to Sydney again that night.

 

 

_The Fête_

 

 

Sark left for the fête early. He told himself he wanted the chance to feel out Chevalier without Sydney beside him. He told himself it was best to keep her as distant from the man as possible, that Lucien Évariste would not wish to expose his young, lovely wife to a business man of Chevalier's dubious qualities. It was, after all, why the real Lucien had intended to refuse Chevalier's gracious invitation.

 

But in reality, he knew he was lying.

 

What he wanted was a little breathing room, time away from Sydney before they were forced into the parts they were playing. Sark had never before questioned his ability to play and discard any role as necessity dictated.  But after last night, he was no longer sure.

 

They exchanged a handful of words over the course of the day, enough to iron out their game plan, decide on the exact timetable they had to work with. Then Sark showered, changed and left while Sydney was still getting ready. He reminded her through the closed bathroom door not to forget her mask.

 

Chevalier was fond of grandiose displays, such as a masqué provided him. For himself, Sark wore a classic black domino, a half mask that left the bottom half of his face uncovered. It matched his tux, and he detested overzealous demonstrations.

 

The limo dropped him at the front entrance to the gothic _Palais des Popes_, long hailed as the largest, most impressive cathedral in all of Europe. It was built with a two-fold purpose - as a fortress of war, and a monument intended to show power through sheer magnificence. Its builders had intended that it outshine Rome , and indeed, it was difficult to dispute their success. The stone walls rose to touch the sky, two towers standing sentinel on either side of the main entrance. Parapets lined the roofline, a grim reminder of religious politics of the 14th century.

 

He ordered the driver back to the hotel for Sydney , and walked up the length of plush carpet, invitation in hand. style='color:blue'&gt; One of four guards -- in tuxes themselves -- took the fanciful bit of black vellum from him, glanced at it and nodded him through.

 

The inside was just as impressive as the exterior, the walls hung with religious tapestries and paintings, the ceilings decorated with frescoes. The exhibition, which held a number of religious artifacts in addition to the Rambaldi pages, was housed in the Great Court under a good deal of electronic security. Not that Sydney would have to worry about that so much, with Marshall taking care of the particulars.

 

The fête was in a neighboring room, the long, rectangular Hall of Great Audience, where beautiful arches lined the ceiling and flowed down to the floor in a row of elegant pillars. It was already crowded, filled with sparkling crystal and swirling lengths of silk. Tuxedoes appeared among the crowd as black dots among a spray of colors, the women wearing everything from emerald silk to lavender chiffon. The masks added a third dimension, many men preferring simple dominos, like Sark's, while the women favored more elaborate pieces dotted with jewels and feathers.

 

Servers in formal white coats carried trays of champagne, and a bar was set up to one side of the room, if guests preferred stronger spirits. Sark ignored both. He wanted nothing to cloud his head tonight.

 

A small orchestral group played at one end of the room, selections designed for dancing, much of it slow and close.  Perfect. For the Évariste's, if not for Sark and Sydney . He stood at the edge of the room, surveying, searching, cataloging.

 

"Lucien?" said a voice at his elbow, and Sark turned to find his quarry beside him.  "Lucien Évariste? I did not recognize you without your _belle_ wife beside you."

 

Chevalier was a younger man than he should have been, for one so wealthy and powerful, but then he and Évariste were two of a kind in that way. He was dark to Sark 's light, his hair and eyes black behind the domino he wore of the same color. A handsome man, he smiled charmingly and extended a hand to Sark . On his arm stood a beautiful blond, her lips painted deep burgundy to match her dress and mask, her eyes a vibrant green Sark suspected were colored contacts.  She stood with more poise than a doxy would have, and Sark assumed that she was a member of the same social class as Chevalier. His assumption was affirmed a moment later, when she raised her glass to her lips. A diamond of at least two carats, likely more, sparkled on her finger.  Intelligence had said nothing of Chevalier's engagement.

 

"It's good to finally meet you," he said neutrally, and shook the man's hand. "My wife will be joining me shortly." He allowed himself a fond smile. "I wished to meet you before she arrives, for after she does, I'm afraid I will be unavailable for business until the time of our appointment. I wanted very much to spend this evening with her, you see, and I am a selfish man."

 

Chevalier laughed, his eyes sparkling. "Ah, yes, I have heard this of you, _Monsieur_.  It is said you are besotted with your young American, and she with you."

 

Sark shrugged, allowed his gaze to move to the woman beside Chevalier, and the prominent diamond on her left hand.

 

"Does a man marry for any other reason?" he asked. 

 

"No, indeed. Allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Colette. She is the light of my existence." Chevalier leaned down as he spoke, lifting her hand to brush her fingers with his lips. She smiled, first at him, then at Sark .

 

"I hope you will not be keeping Gerard late this evening, _Monsieur_ Évariste."

 

"I promise not to. My wife will never forgive me if I am late myself, after all.  I promised her a romantic stroll along the Rhône tonight."

 

"Ah, very good." Chevalier chose to read what he wanted into Sark 's words. "Then our business should be short, and one hopes, successful."

 

Sark 's eyes moved beyond the other man, fixed on something over his left shoulder.

 

"One does, indeed," he murmured, his tone appropriately distracted.

 

He would have recognized Sydney regardless of what she wore, but she'd chosen simplicity over glamour, and the look suited her. For the benefit of his audience, he made sure his eyes warmed when he saw her, and parted his lips in wordless appreciation. It didn't take much effort.

 

Her dress was long and simple, a silver sheath that began with tiny straps made up of sparkling Austrian crystals sewn into the fabric, and ending in a small train that barely brushed the floor. It flowed behind her, giving the impression of floating as she walked. The rest of the dress clung to her curves, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal the inner swell of each breast, while still retaining modesty. She wore a diamond pendant that swung between them, catching the light every time she moved, and matched by the stones that dripped from her ears. The diamonds were real, Sark knew. As real as the those on her finger. style='color:blue'&gt;

 

Her shoes were three-inch heels, silver, and crystal studded like the straps to her gown. Her mask, too, matched the dress as though made for it. Another domino that circled only her eyes, it continued the theme of silver and sparkle, the crystals lining its outer edge. She wore her hair up, sleekly pulled back into a complicated knot that looked vaguely Celtic in design, and left her shoulders bare.

 

It was understated elegance, a look designed to enhance her own beauty, and not overshadow it. And when she paused in the doorway, moved to accept a glass of champagne from one of the servers stationed there, Sark glimpsed only bare skin as she turned. The dress dipped all the way to her waist, the crystal straps lining either side of her naked back, showcasing the smooth expanse of skin.

 

An image flashed in his head, one of dancing with her, his hands on that skin, and his throat went completely, painfully dry. For a second he struggled for control, fought to keep his body in check. He swore internally, wished to God that the night before had never happened, that he'd never allowed his control to slip around her. _How long would they have to dance together?_ _An hour?_

 

Chevalier's chuckle brought him back to himself, reminded him of the role he was supposed to be playing.

 

"I will let you go, my friend, and meet with you later. As you say, when she is in the room, you have eyes for nothing else, eh?" He glanced at the TAG Heuer watch he wore. "Shall we say, nine o'clock ? I will meet you by the entrance then."

 

He left, taking Colette with him, and Sark glanced at his own watch. It was a little after seven. Almost two hours. He sucked in a breath, bit back another oath. It appeared he had little choice in the matter.

 

Sark fixed a smile on his face, and crossed to Sydney . He would play his part as necessary, and he would do it well.  He strode to her side, leaned down and brushed his lips along her neck in a particularly loving gesture.

 

"_Tu m'enchates, mon amour,_" he whispered, careful to speak French.

 

She hadn't been expecting it. He could tell by the small breath she inhaled, the way her eyes widened slightly, the slight shiver she gave as his lips touched her skin.  He pulled her arm through his, felt the tension in her body as he did so. He nearly frowned, caught himself, and leaned close to her ear. With her heels, they were very nearly the same height.

 

"Relax," he breathed. "Elise Évariste would not be uncomfortable at the attentions of her husband."

 

She smiled at him, radiant, and only he could see the way her eyes narrowed behind her mask. She did not appreciate his reminder, though her arm did relax. She took a swallow of champagne, never taking her eyes from his, then held out the still half full glass for a server to take. She leaned into him, and the scent of her perfume - something light and sultry -wafted around him. She spoke in French as well.

 

"Let's dance, _ma amour,_" she said softly.  "I want to feel your arms around me."

 

Her eyes glittered with challenge, and Sark knew she was proving herself, her ability to play Elise to perfection. Dancing also kept the servers with their flutes of champagne away from them, an added bonus, he was sure, to Sydney 's thinking.

 

And the Évariste's, by all reports, loved dancing.

 

He laughed, low and husky, and lifted her hand to his lips, much as Chevalier had done with Colette moments ago.  He said nothing, but led her to the dance floor and pulled her into his arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite how smoothly they glided together across the floor, Sydney hadn't quite regained her balance since that first glimpse of Sark . The tuxedo fit him to perfection, but then, they'd been measured for the clothes before leaving L.A. It enhanced his broad shoulders and narrow waist. And his eyes seemed brighter, bluer than usual, encircled by the black domino.  They'd nearly glowed as he smiled at her.

 

Then he'd shocked her with that caress of lips over her throat. Wasn't he overplaying it, just a bit? Or perhaps she was just being too sensitive. She'd spent a restless night, analyzing every word, every nuance of their argument and what had almost happened after. She was reasonably certain her first impression was correct - Sark had almost kissed her. And she'd almost let him.

 

It was a galling and nerve-wracking realization. And she had no idea what to do about it, if anything. He was still her enemy. He worked for Sloane. It would be unwise, wouldn't it, to think of him in any other capacity?

 

But it was hard to remember any of that while she floated across a dance floor in his arms. His eyes reminded her of last night, intense and warm, staring at her face as if he would memorize it, as if he could see right through all of her many masks. Which in itself was a dangerous thought. She tried to remind herself that he was Lucien, staring adoringly at Elise. Not Sark. Not Sydney.

 

And then his hand touched her back lightly, his fingers trailing a path down her spine. She couldn't quite keep from gasping, or stop the shudder that followed his touch.

 

Was he doing this deliberately? Baiting her? Goading her? Or did he merely play his part too well? With the way he looked tonight, especially aided by the mask, she could almost forget who he was. Almost pretend he was someone else. Someone she could be free to respond to when he touched her.

 

_But he isn't,_ she reminded herself sternly, deliberately moving closer to him. She rested her head against his shoulder, and with a sigh, closed her eyes.  _He's Sark._

 

His hand continued to stroke her back, the movement both loving and possessive to those who watched them. It stirred restless feelings in Sydney , made things tighten deep in her gut, things she should never have felt with Sark , regardless of the  situation. Her breath was coming a bit faster than before, and not from the dancing, though she hoped he attributed it to that.

 

_"Tu es si belle,_" he whispered suddenly, and his lips grazed her shoulder._ "Je souhaiterais que nous soyions seuls, je pourrais te montrer à quelle point tu es belle."_

 

The murmured words had as deep an effect on her as the feel of his lips pressed against her skin. Her hands tightened on his arms involuntarily, and she faltered a step. Sark covered for it smoothly, whirling her around. _You are so beautiful, _he'd said. _I wish we were alone, so I could show you how beautiful. _He couldn't mean, that, surely? Other dancers were all around them, certainly close enough to hear, but even so, why say it unless it was necessary?

 

She lifted her head, looked up at him. She could feel the pulse beating at her throat, and the room was suddenly uncomfortably warm. She opened her mouth, intending to say something in character that might help her to discern his motives.

 

"You dance divinely together," an unfamiliar voice said in heavily accented English from behind her. She turned her head, saw a man who could only be Chevalier dancing beside them with a sultry blond woman. "I can see what _Monsieur _Évariste admires so deeply, _Madame_."

 

Sydney smiled as if delighted, but inside she felt a wash of adrenaline. _This is why he said that,_ she thought. _Nothing more._

 

"You speak very good English, _Monsieur,_" she commented. "You are acquainted with Lucien?"

 

She sent a glance at Sark, arching an eyebrow as if in question. He tightened his hold on her, pressed her against him in a way that could only be interpreted as possessive.  His hand splayed across her back, his fingers warm and slightly rough.

 

"This is Gerard Chevalier, _mon chérie_," Sark replied, taking his cue. "A business associate."

 

"Ah, of course. Business." Sydney wrinkled her nose slightly as if the thought was of distaste to her. She lifted a hand and touched a finger to Sark 's lips, traced them lightly as she allowed a flirtatious smile to curve her mouth. "But we are not discussing business now, are we darling?"

 

He captured her hand, his eyes holding hers, and slowly, deliberately placed a kiss on the sensitive inner flesh of her wrist. A wave of heat rolled through her, and Sydney knew he could see it in her eyes. Knew by the way his suddenly darkened. _Or was that merely manufactured for Chevalier's benefit?_

 

"No," he said softly. "No business." He spoke to the man beside them without looking away from Sydney. "You'll excuse us, of course?"

 

"Of course," Chevalier replied good-naturedly, but Sark was already whirling her away.

 

Sydney suddenly wished she still had that glass of champagne. She needed something to cool her down, something to wet her throat, a moment free of Sark 's arms to steady herself. She took a deep breath, hoping that would help. It had the unfortunate effect of brushing her breasts against his chest, instead. Her nipples tightened. She closed her eyes, trying to keep the mortification from showing  on her face, in her eyes.  She prayed he didn't notice, but the dress did cling.

 

It was irrefutable evidence.  Sark affected her. Aroused her. And the very idea frightened her down to her bones.

 

"Elise?" he asked softly, his lips far, far too close to her ear. "Are you all right, _mon amour_?

 

She opened her eyes. Hoped her voice didn't sound too breathless as she said, "I could use something to drink, I think. Some champagne, perhaps? Just a swallow or two."

 

"Of course, _chérie._"

 

Sark stepped back, guided her from the floor with a hand at her back. Which didn't help in the slightest. _What in God's name had possessed the person responsible for mission wardrobe to pick this dress? _Sydney intended to find them when she got back to L.A., and have a very strongly worded conversation.

 

Sark smoothly grabbed two glasses from a passing tray, handed one to her. She took it gratefully. For that one moment, anyway, he wasn't touching her. Thank God. She took an impressive swallow.

 

Sark leaned over her, brushed a hand over her hair, but his voice was serious when he spoke. Sark's voice, not Lucien's.

 

"Are you all right?"

 

She glanced up, met his eyes, felt something hot lance through her at the look in them. Stormy. Dark. Like last night, only more so.

 

"How long before your business?" she asked, trying to keep the words neutral in case anyone could overhear. It was surprisingly difficult to keep her voice steady.

 

He frowned.

 

"A bit more than an hour." He paused, seemed to consider that himself. "I think I could move up the meeting, though.  I told him I'd promised you a walk along the Rhône. I could say you were impatient to get me alone."

 

He smiled as he said it, touched her neck, brushed her collarbone in a light caress. Sydney swallowed, feeling her pulse hammering. _It isn't me,_ she reminded herself. _It's Lucien, speaking to Elise. All part of the show._

 

She smiled, leaned into him with her hand splayed across his chest. "Do," she said simply.

 

He left her side quickly, weaving his way through the dancers. Sydney watched him for a moment, and then turned, making her way for the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gerard Chevalier led Sark to a small, private room in the Palace, likely someone's living quarters from several centuries back. He shut the door, gave the very modern deadbolt a turn to make sure they would remain undisturbed.

 

"I must say, _Monsieur_ Évariste," he said, crossing the  room to seat himself on one of the velvet covered chairs. "I cannot fault you for wishing to retire early with your wife. I may follow your example and do some celebrating with Colette this evening."  He smiled. "If our conversation goes as planned.  You received my proposal?"

 

"Yes," he said to Chevalier, "and I must admit, I am very interested. It sounds like a great deal of money will be made."

 

"China has already made us an offer. As have several Middle Eastern countries, and a handful of warlords in Africa . Once produced, the weapons promise to earn us a figure in the hundreds of billions." He smiled, his dark eyes alight at the prospect.

 

"The potential is impressive," Sark admitted. "But the risks are great as well. Perhaps too great."

 

Chevalier raised an eyebrow, maintaining his pleasant smile.

 

"Too great? How could they be too great for such a sum, _Monsieur_?"

 

Sark shrugged, looked across at the other man soberly.

 

"As you have seen for yourself tonight, I am no longer a man free to make decisions based solely upon myself. I have a young wife I must consider. What happens to her, if something should befall me?"

 

Gerard stood, crossed to an antique table and uncorked a decanter of Scotch.

 

"I was going to save this for later," he said.  "But perhaps this conversation will best be had over forty year old Scotch." He poured, turned toward Sark with two glasses in hand. He extended one, and Sark accepted.

 

_She should be approaching the pages now, using that rock Marshall gave her to cut the glass._

 

"Do you see this place, _Monsieur_ Évariste?" Chevalier spread his arms to indicate the entire Palace. "Do you know it was renovated in recent years? Do you know who paid for a large portion of those renovations?" He sat again, smiled smugly.

 

Sark tipped his head forward, indicating he understood.

 

"Yes, I contributed a great deal to the restoration of the _Palais des Papes._  In exchange, I'm allowed my little indulgences for its use. Such as the fête tonight." He took a drink of his Scotch. "I also provided several of the items on display for the exhibition in the Great Room.  Did you get a chance to see it before the fête began? No?  I'm afraid it's closed for the evening, but if you get the chance, you should indulge yourself. There's a piece of wood on display that is supposed to have come from the cross which crucified Christ."

 

Sark was remembering intel. Artifacts weren't all this man had contributed to the exhibition - it was his elaborate security Sydney was currently bypassing. _Should be removing the pages, _he thought, _looking for Rambaldi's authentication._

 

"Really?" he said, feigning interest. He took a small drink from his glass, knowing that to a man like Chevalier, it would be an insult not to.

 

The other man laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the only wrinkles to touch his smooth olive skin. He looked more Italian than French, really, and given his business choices, Sark had to wonder if he might have blood ties to certain _mafioso's_ of that country. It was something to look into.

 

"And I see you are wondering what this has to do with our business, yes? Well, money, _Monsieur_, is the most powerful entity in this world. It can buy almost anything." His smile faded. "Loyalty. Power. Security. Even love, to some degree." He paused, noted the way Sark frowned, dropped his eyes to his glass. "You disagree? I hear you wooed your wife with extravagant displays, such as you could not have afforded, were you a lesser man."

 

"But she did not fall in love with my displays, as you call them," Sark said, looking back up. The longer he kept Chevalier occupied, the longer Sydney would have to complete her missions - both of them. "As I imagine Colette did not fall in love with yours. She may have been impressed by them, may have been charmed, but in the end, it was the man she wanted, not the money."

 

Chevalier spread his hands, indicating a concession of the point.

 

"Perhaps you are right, after all. But you cannot argue about the others. Money does buy loyalty -- and power, and security. With a hundred billion dollars, you could buy your beautiful Elise a great deal of security, _mon ami_."

 

_Ah_, thought Sark, _here begin the negotiations._

 

He turned his in his hands, his eyes far away, as if thinking. But Sloane had already told him the figure to get. So Sark would get it.

 

"Five hundred," he said, looking up at last to meet Chevalier's dark eyes. _She must be finished with her counter mission by now. Hiding the pages, then. God knows where, in that dress. _"Five hundred billion, and I'll agree to your terms." _She must have brought some sort of wrap or bag with her. Something she could have retrieved before going in._

 

"You drive a difficult bargain, _Monsieur._  But I accept. In exchange for your initial capital, you'll receive a minimum of five hundred billion dollars of the profits."

 

For a moment, Sark was stunned.  He'd expected a counter offer. Had anticipated coming down from that figure. Chevalier stood, smiling brightly. _He must anticipate quite an astronomical figure for sales,_ Sark thought, and stood as well. _I should have asked for more -- I hope I've given Sydney enough time._

 

He took the other man's offered hand, sealed the bargain with a gentlemen's agreement.

 

"I'll have my solicitor send you the details, _mon ami. _I know you are anxious to return to your wife." He winked conspiratorially. "As I'm sure she is anxiously awaiting you, eh?"

 

As he followed Chevalier from the room, Sark certainly hoped so.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sydney was not, in fact, waiting for Sark.

 

Her counter mission to photograph each of the pages for the CIA had taken longer than anticipated. She retrieved her tiny digital camera from her silver handbag, and snapped photos of all thirty-six pages. It took her an additional two minutes to get them all, and then she was storing the camera back inside the false bottom of her bag -- a bit larger than a clutch, but thin and sleek to match the style of her dress.  The clasp was studded with more of the tiny crystals.

 

She gave it a twist, and unlocked a hidden clasp that opened a second compartment of her handbag, paralleling the main compartment. It was just large enough to slide the eight by five inch pages into, and twist closed again.

 

"Done," she whispered to both Marshall and Weiss, her CIA contact. She pulled both earpieces free, and they joined the camera in the bottom of her bag.

 

That done, she stood, brushed herself clean, and began moving quickly back through the glass enclosed exhibits. She was behind schedule, now, and two minutes could make the difference between success and failure, between life and death.

 

As always when she cut it so close, her heart was pounding with excess adrenaline as she rounded the corner into the hall, walking quickly. She was no longer with the exhibits, but if someone caught her, she would be hard pressed to explain her presence to any sort of satisfaction. There were no other rooms down this corridor.

 

If her luck was holding, she wouldn't have to, and Sark wouldn't be back in the Hall yet. She didn't particularly want to explain to him why she was late.

 

Walking as fast as she was able to in three-inch heels - almost a jog, really -- she rounded another corner... and ran right into someone.  She got a glimpse of  a tux and black mask just before they collided. The security personnel tonight were all wearing the same thing, but then, so was -

 

"What took you so fucking long?"

 

\-- Sark.

 

She exhaled in relief, her heart thudding rapidly.  _Thank God._ She'd never been more happy to see him, even if his tone was unreasonably irritated. His hands remained on her arms to steady her, and she looked up, actually smiling at him.

 

"I couldn't get the--"

 

"Sshh," he said, going still as he put a finger to his lips.

 

Very faintly, she could hear the definite sounds of someone striding down the hallway, the faint but unmistakable rumble of voices. They were getting louder. Her eyes widened in renewed alarm. Sark cursed.

 

"They must have glimpsed me turning down the corridor," he said, very softly. "We need a room, somewhere to--"

 

But Sydney was already shaking her head frantically.

 

"There aren't any," she hissed. "The exhibition is the only one down this corridor."

 

"Hell." He shot a glance back over his shoulder. They had a few seconds, no more. "No help for it, then." He turned back toward her, his grip tightening, and suddenly flung her against the wall.

 

Sydney had been mentally readying herself for a fight. His sudden move startled her, knocked the breath from her lungs. She gasped, opened her mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing, but the words never came.

 

Because Sark was suddenly kissing her.

 

Brutally, his mouth covered hers. There was no gentle coaxing, no preliminaries, no foreplay of any kind. His lips bruised with the force of their assault. His tongue slid into her mouth, entangled hers in a way that demanded a response, stroking and plundering with an almost calculated precision.

 

As if he knew exactly how to arouse her.

 

Her hands shoved against his chest, automatically trying to keep him back, to lever him off, but he didn't budge an inch. He adjusted the angle of his head slightly, slowed the stroke of his tongue to something sensuous and erotic, and impossible to resist. It sent little lances of need through her gut with each individual touch. At the same time, his hands slid from her shoulders, brushed nimble fingers down the fringes of her back. Like he had on the dance floor. She shivered, gave a low moan.

 

Wanted him to touch her.

 

Her hands fisted in his jacket, tried to pull him closer still. And as if that had been a signal, Sark released her mouth.  His teeth scraped her bottom lip, nipping, and his tongue darted in immediately after, soothing. He cupped one breast through the thin fabric of her dress, flicked the already taut nipple with his thumb, teased it until she arched her back, asking him wordlessly for more.

 

Her breath came short and fast, gasping as his mouth moved down her neck, his tongue and teeth playing havoc with her pulse.  She couldn't help it. She forgot where they were, why they were there, what they were doing. Everything vanished until all she knew was heat and need, until the only thing that mattered was his body pressed against hers, his hands on her skin. It took no effort at all for him to slip his hand inside her dress, brush his fingers over her breast, tug lightly on her nipple. She bit her lip, breathed his name.

 

" Sark ..."

 

"_Lucien,_" he said harshly in her ear. "You have to call me Lucien, _mon chêrie._"

 

It was like a being doused with ice water. She froze, stiffened in shock, aroused to the point of pain, her heart pounding.

 

"_Lucien!_" she hissed, staring.

 

He raised his head, looked into her eyes. Emotions paraded across his face, through his eyes, almost too quick to identify behind his mask. But the last she knew. Realization and regret.

 

_"Hé! C'est quoi, ça?"_

 

The approaching footsteps had reached them, made anything else impossible to say. Sark lifted his hands away from her while Sydney, a furious flush heating her face, adjusted her dress.

 

Two guards in tuxes, with earpieces and drawn Berettas, came to a halt beside them, looking from Sark to Sydney and back again.

 

"What are you doing down here?" one of them asked, directing the question at Sark. "This area is off limits to guests at this time."

 

He shrugged, looking embarrassed as he maneuvered himself between their line of vision and Sydney, shielding her.

 

"My wife and I were just looking from some privacy, _mon ami._ We didn't realize this hallway was restricted."  He reached behind him, pulled her into a protective embrace at his side. Sydney bent her head, kept it buried against Sark 's shoulder.  "Come, _chêrie_, we will return to our hotel so as not to disturb these gentlemen further."

 

The guards hesitated, clearly unsure how far to pursue the matter. One of them touched Sark 's arm lightly, apologetically.

 

"I'm sorry, _Monsieur_. Can we have your name, purely for our records? It will not go beyond ourselves and our superior, I promise you."

 

"Of course - Lucien Évariste. And please do extend my sincerest apologies to Chevalier.  Tell him...I could not wait to begin celebrating."

 

"Of course, _Monsieur_." The guard politely extended his hand. "This way, please."

 

Heart pounding, Sydney clung closely to Sark as they made their was down the corridor. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his tux, itched to reach right through it to the flesh beneath. She just wasn't sure if she meant to rip it to shreds, or stroke it to passion.  Beneath her hand, she could feel his heart hammering, faster than it should have been. Yet the question remained, why?

 

From the altercation with the guards? Or from the passionate interlude they'd just shared?

 

_Of course_, she thought bitterly, _that was all a show. She_ had been the one to get caught up in the moment, to forget the script. Sark had remembered  only too well. She thought of the ruthless way in which he'd dominated her, controlled the situation by intentionally arousing her. Anger rose and burned away mortification. He'd done it deliberately. Deliberately and with cold calculation.

 

By the time they exited the Palace and slipped inside the dark recesses of their limo, Sydney was shaking with barely suppressed rage. She didn't trust herself to speak, so she turned her head and stared resolutely out the window. She sat as far from Sark as she could get, held herself coldly aloof. He made no attempt to bridge the gap, and fortunately for him, didn't try to talk.  The short ride back to their hotel was one of strained silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sark could see Sydney's anger radiating from her in the stiff, jerky way she moved, so at odds with the elegance of her appearance. She stalked from the limousine, into the elevator of the hotel, and treated him to icy silence during the ride up. Her fingers were busy untying her mask as soon as she stepped inside their suite, flinging it aside with a hurl of her wrist.

 

He watched, remaining silent, wondering how he could fix this.

 

He hadn't meant for things to go so far in the corridor. Hadn't meant to manipulate her emotions so successfully. How was he to know that underneath that stiff, prickly exterior, Sydney Bristow felt anything for him except contempt?

 

Well, perhaps the night before should have clued him in. That argument in the bedroom -- the tension between them should have told him a lot of things. Should have, but didn't, because he'd been too concerned with his own lapse in control.  And now it was too late for recriminations.

 

Thin lipped, she kept her eyes averted away from him, started across the room to the bedroom, where he was sure she would disappear for the duration of their stay , if he let her.

 

He didn't .

 

Sark took two quick strides, snagged her wrist in his hand.

 

"Sydney --"

 

She jerked her arm free, her eyes turbulent with hostility, wariness, hurt.

 

"Don't touch me, you son of a bitch! Don't you _ever_ touch me again!"

 

He threw his hands up between them as if to ward off a blow.

 

"Sydney , I --"

 

But once started, she was far from finished.  If she'd had a gun handy, Sark wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't have riddled him with bullets.

 

"Did you enjoy that, Sark? Don't bother answering - I know you did it deliberately. I'm sure it's a nice boost to your ego to know you affect me, on a physical level, to know that you were able to use me so easily. Enjoy your victory, you bastard, because you won't get an opportunity to repeat it."

 

She swung away again, and this time Sark didn't touch her. He put his hands in his pockets, and used words instead.

 

"You think you're the only one?" he asked quietly.  "Do you really believe I felt _nothing_ when I touched you?"

 

She hesitated so briefly he almost didn't catch it, but stiffened her spine and kept moving.

 

"I don't care," she threw over a shoulder.

 

"Yes, you do."

 

He took a step, stopped himself. She would never listen if he tried to force the issue. He took a deep breath and plunged forward. He had to force the words out; he was so accustomed to hiding everything he felt, all the time. But he desperately needed her to understand. So much that it unsettled him to realize it.

 

"God, even Chevalier noticed! You walked into that fête, and everything I did from that moment forward was a test of endurance. An exercise in control."

 

She half turned toward him, a frown on her face.  But at least she wasn't staring at him like she wanted to rip him into bloody pieces anymore.

 

"An exercise?" she said carefully. "A test?"

 

Sark scowled, resisted the urge to curse.  He knew exactly how those words could be interpreted, taken out of context.

 

"Yes," he admitted grudgingly. "To keep myself from scrubbing the whole damn mission and taking you right there, right then." He shrugged, allowed himself a small smirk. "Well, perhaps somewhere a bit more private."

 

She looked at him, searched his face, hesitated.

 

"I'm...not sure I believe you," she said finally.

 

Because he couldn't stand not to anymore, Sark closed the distance between them, stood close to her without actually touching. He wouldn't do that again unless she let him.

 

"Believe it," he said softly. "You might have wanted me, then, in that moment. But I still want you." _And it's killing me._ But he still had his pride, his ego, and he sure as Hell wasn't  going to tell her that.

 

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes. "Do you?"

 

For a brief second, it felt as though a hand squeezed tight around his lungs, painful and cruel. She was going to walk away, he knew it. Leave him exposed and vulnerable, and empty.

 

Suddenly she was reaching up, touching his face, and Sark froze, held himself utterly still. She lifted his mask free, seemed to search his face with her eyes. Slowly, she pressed one hand against his chest, palm flat.  She stood like that for several seconds while Sark waited, and to his shock, a genuine smile slowly spread over her lips, spilled into her eyes, warmed them.

 

"I think you do," she said, and tossed his mask to the floor.

 

His hands closed over her hips of their own accord, held her in place. And then he was kissing her.

 

It was as if they were back in that shadowy corridor, back in that place of interrupted need, overwhelming desire. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue hot and questing, enticing him back into that swirling, dark maelstrom of emotion. Automatically, Sark fought to keep himself in check, to keep his mind and body from slipping  over that edge of reason.

 

Sydney had other ideas.  She didn't give him a chance to think, but used her body, her hands, her mouth against him. She sucked on his bottom lip as she pushed his jacket down his shoulders, off his arms. The hard nubs of her nipples pressed against him through the satin of her dress, the cloth of his shirt. And she rubbed, deliberately, making sure her hips fit snugly against his. Making sure her heat enveloped him, practically torturing him with the friction. He'd been hard already, from wanting her. Now it verged on painful. If he _didn't_ have her soon, it would be. For now, it was exquisite pleasure.

 

And he fell over that edge, lost all grip on reason. Lost control.

 

He groaned , lifted her up so her legs could wrap around him. Wished they weren't wearing so many goddamn clothes. He kissed her frantically, lathed his tongue over her throat, sucked at her earlobe until she shuddered, her head falling back. Her hips thrust against him, demanding, sending pleasure shooting through every nerve in his body. He couldn't imagine what it would be like, sheathed inside of her.  The thought almost buckled his knees.

 

"Sydney," he said unsteadily, and carried her into the bedroom, crawled with her onto the bed.  "This is _us_. Not Lucien.  Not Elise."

 

She opened her eyes, searched his face.

 

"I know."

 

"I just want that clear."

 

As soon as they were free, his hands were on her dress, lifting it up over her hips, skimming the straps of her garter. Sydney 's nimble fingers had worked free his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and half pulled it free. Then she touched him, traced his chest, brushed nipples that were already taut.

 

He returned the favor, but stroked his fingers over the damp swathe of lace between her legs, had the pleasure of hearing her whimper, feeling her body arch, thrust against him.  The straps of her gown had fallen sometime ago, exposing her nude breasts to the air, to him. He took advantage of the opportunity, bent his head to close his mouth over one at the same moment that he pushed the lace aside, and thrust two fingers inside her wet, slick folds.

 

She cried out, gasped, clutched his shoulders with her hands. He suckled each breast, tongued both nipples, thrust his fingers in and out, making the strokes deep and steady. The muscles of his abdomen tightened as lust speared sharp and hot through him, intensifying each time she whimpered, gasped, tensed with building pleasure. He found her clit with his thumb, pressed, and she writhed beneath him.

 

"Sark!" she nearly sobbed, "I can't...I need..."

 

She moved frantically, seeking release, and he added a third finger. He watched her face, rubbed his other hand over her lips. She was flushed with heat, her eyes closed. He wanted them open.

 

"Sydney," he whispered, commanding. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

 

He pressed with his thumb again, and she moaned. Her eyes flew open, fixed on his just as she gave a shudder, tightening around his fingers.  It was amazing, watching the pleasure fill her face, wrack her body. It pushed him past endurance.

 

He didn't remember removing the last of their clothing, but he was suddenly lifting her hips, burying himself inside of her in a single, deep thrust. He stopped for a moment, enjoyed just feeling her wrapped around him, slick and tight. He started slowly, cataloging each sensation, each tendril of pleasure that touched him. 

 

He built the rhythm, then slowed it, changed it before the peak could come, waited for her to join him back on that plain of frantic need.  He locked his eyes on hers, didn't let her look away. The third time he felt it start to build , he didn't stop it. He couldn't wait any longer, couldn't stand the torment of prolonged pleasure. He'd watched the first orgasm spill into her eyes so he'd know, this time. He saw it begin, watched her breath hitch with the first quiver. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, and he let himself go. He convulsed, groaned, shuddered in a climax that went on and on. Finally, he bent his head to rest it against hers, their breath mingling in short, heavy gasps.

 

They stayed joined for a time, neither of them speaking. Sark didn't want  to destroy the moment, so he lay silent. Thinking.

 

A little later, as he curled around Sydney beneath the blankets, the room drenched in darkness around them, she spoke. Her voice was drowsy, her words slightly slurred with approaching slumber.

 

"Don't let me dream," she said, a plea.

 

He tightened his hold, oddly touched, pressed a kiss to her brow.

 

"I won't," he whispered. "Sleep, Sydney. You're safe with me."

 

She didn't answer, already gone. Asleep without the aid of pills.

 

And for once, she didn't dream.

 

::_La Fine_::


End file.
